


under lock and key

by Chierei



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Comfort, Dissociation, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, References to Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: People always think they were born monsters, but in the end, they were just two broken and scared little boys.





	under lock and key

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags, lovelies.

#

Oswald settled back into Arkham in a haze, the sharp pain of Zasz'z betrayal mixed with his own concern for Martin left him numb, an empty shell wandering the halls. The other patients left him alone for the most part, his name enough to give him space and prevent most molestation, and there was no Hugo Strange lurking around the corner waiting for some impending torture this time. Arkham was better than Blackgate, Oswald knew, where his name and reputation would not be enough to deter inmates and their wandering hands. Oswald was smaller and lighter than most men, with hair a tad longer and the lack of muscle definition that, while not particularly feminine in nature, made him a suitable substitute for most men’s lust.

 

Arkham, on the other hand, was full of crazies who didn’t want or crazies who knew enough to not touch. But when the newest batch of patients came in, though, Oswald knew which one picked him out. Bulky and covered in muscles with eyes that Oswald knew had a taste for pain. It wasn’t like his own leanings, with the beauty of torture and the sweet, slow art of death. No, this was the rough punches to the sternum and artless hands around his neck, squeezing. 

 

He's not particularly surprised when he is cornered in his cell while scribbling a letter he wouldn’t send, the newest inmate flanked by two others who were equally large to block the entire entrance. He knew none of the guards would intervene, knew that maybe some would pay extra to watch.

 

Oswald continued to not be surprised when he is pulled out of his chair by a rough hand and pushed to his knees, his bad leg searing in pain at the pressure and him grimacing at the grip in his hair and the scent of unwashed men. The man said something lewd that Oswald doesn’t bother listening to as he starts to loosen his trousers, intent on getting to the main event. His eyes were glazed, unseeing and uncaring, and just waiting for it to be over so he could return to his letter.

 

He _was_ surprised when he was abruptly released, the hand dragged away from his hair and leaving him bleary and confused on his knees. The last thing he expected to see was Jerome Valeska as his savior, the young ginger laughing, the laugh just the wrong side of maniacal to be in enjoyment. Oswald didn’t look away when the young man stomps on the delicate bones of a hand, didn't look away from the bloody pulp of the leftover limb, and didn't feel anything—satisfaction, gratitude—at the pleads for mercy from his would-be attacker. He pulled himself to his feet and watched with bored eyes as the man finally stopped moving.

 

“Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie,” Jerome said, sing-song, after giving one last kick for good measure. “Were you really going to get that brute touch you?” He slipped behind the petite man, wrapping his arms around the other, one arm looped around his neck as he ended in a loud whisper into his ear, breath hot and smelling of pepper and garlic from lunch.

 

Oswald didn’t bother struggling. Jerome has been needling him all week, pokes and prods that Oswald was long immune to. He tilted his head back to look at Jerome, at the scarred face and the wide smile. “Why not?” he asked, monotone and uncaring. He was just tired. “Wouldn’t be the first, wouldn’t be the last.”

 

The way he said it made Jerome freeze, looking at Oswald carefully. Then, as though testing, his touches changed, hands questing and invasive, one wrapping around his throat, pressing, waiting for a reaction.

 

Oswald didn’t give one, just tilted his head to give better access to his neck and shifted, allowing fingers that were moving a slow path to his groin a more welcome avenue.

 

Jerome pulled away abruptly, as though his touch burned and almost ran out the door, leaving behind a perplexed Oswald who sat down and continued his letter.

 

* * *

 

Jerome started acting differently after that. He still came to Oswald at lunch, but no longer heckled or grabbed him. Instead, he would poke and prod at Oswald’s lunch, swapping things around with his own tray before allowing Oswald to eat. He always gave Oswald his dessert if it was chocolate and had an unusual preference to commandeer the soggy off-colored carrots from Oswald’s tray all while talking at a mile a minute. Oswald knew better than to question it—this was better than the insistent nagging and threats that he’d ‘cure’ Oswald or that the Penguin was being too boring.

 

Instead, his posse would sit at the table and Jerome would talk at them in between moving food between the trays and bites of his own lunch. Oswald would eat mostly in silence, sometimes snarling something clever enough that would make Jerome howl. Oswald grew used to the boy’s presence, the sound of his voice and laugh, and started to seek him out by habit and lack of anything else to do. 

 

He didn’t know when he started following Jerome instead of Jerome following him, but it became a common sight for the two to be walking together in the yard or in the hallway. Oswald rarely spoke and Jerome filled the silence with inane chatter, but Oswald counted him a tentative ally. Or at least, an acquaintance would wasn’t planning anything harmful for the time being.

 

The touches returned slowly, almost so slow that Oswald didn’t notice until he realized he was leaning into the younger man who had an arm around his shoulder as they lounged in the yard. He didn’t acknowledge the touch beyond leaning in more until he could hear the light beating of the man’s heart in his ear.

 

The small touches to the arm and shoulder became hugs and arms around his waist as they walked. Jerome liked to play with Oswald’s growing hair, combing his fingers through the soft strands. He liked to wrap his arms around Oswald, treating him like an overgrown teddy bear that he would pull into his lap, nuzzling his cheek against the older man’s affectionately. Oswald reciprocated, leaning in to his touches or burying his face into the boy's neck, breathing in the scent of soap and sweat.

 

Oswald didn’t know what Jerome was waiting for.

 

He finally made the choice for Jerome, tired of the games. He paid off the guard to let him into Jerome’s cell one night, startling the ginger where he had been reclining on his cot, hands behind his head as he stared at the ceiling.

 

“Ozzie!” he greeted, covering the surprise with a wide grin, scars twisting up in a way that was both grotesque and endearing. “What brings you to my humble abode?” He swung up into a sitting position, feet on the ground and leaning his weight back onto his arms.

 

Oswald wasted no time straddling his lap, wrapping his thin arms around his shoulders and pressing their lips together. Jerome stiffened before his hands came to grab Oswald by the waist, pulling him closer. The kiss was good, rough with the feeling of Jerome’s scars not an unpleasant sensation against his own skin. He tasted clean, like mint toothpaste, and his lips were surprisingly soft and yielding. He pressed harder into the man, his tongue exploring while his teeth nipped at the other’s mouth. He felt the hands around his waist tightened as Oswald ground down on the man’s lap, rubbing themselves together in deliriously good friction. He let out a soft moan into the younger boy's mouth, heady and begging and wanton.

 

Oswald pulled away, a thin string of saliva still connecting their mouth that Oswald’s licked away, tracing the edges of Jerome’s lips with the tip of his tongue, teasing. “It’s okay,” he murmured into Jerome’s lips. He laced their fingers together and then guided the younger boy’s hands down to the curve his ass, inviting him to squeeze. “Go ahead, you can touch.”

 

Another kiss, this time longer and more heated as they moved together, Jerome’s hands kneading Oswald’s backside in time with their dry thrusts. Their breaths came out in pants, loud in the otherwise silent room, and intermixed with the rustling of stiff fabric. Oswald slipped a hand in between them, snaking it down Jerome’s pants and giving him a good squeeze over his briefs. “Let me take care of you, baby,” Oswald said, soft and low, giving Jerome a push to get him to lay on his back. “I’ll make you feel good." He slid his hand down the band of the boy's brief, fingers just barely whispering over the hot, pulsing erection. 

 

Something about that made Jerome freeze, and Oswald found himself thrown off and onto the bed. Jerome stood up, tucking himself back into his pants with messy desperation. Oswald laid confused on Jerome’s cot, staring up at the boy who had an expression that was a cross between rage and shame, arousal and loathing.

 

Oswald didn’t get up, only propped himself up with one arm. “Did you not like that?” he asked with a cock of his head. “Did you want me on my back instead? I can struggle or cry if you like that. Whatever you want.” He didn’t understand—isn’t this what Jerome had been wanting? All the touches and gifts, protection and little affections?

 

Jerome just paced, hands in his hair, pulling as though trying to argue with himself. Then, stopping abruptly, he pinned Oswald with two golden eyes, focused and manic. “How did you get here? In my cell?”

 

Oswald shrugged and rolled his eyes. “Same way as everyone. I paid off the guard.”

 

Jerome’s eyes narrowed. “With what?” His voice was deadly, strained, and threatening.

 

Oswald gave Jerome a telling looking, licking his lips and let his eyes trace pointedly down to his crotch.

 

“Don’t,” Jerome started, one gloved hand reaching out as though to grab Oswald’s face before stopping. “Don’t _do_ that.”

 

 _Oh_ , Oswald understood now. He ducked his head and looked up at Jerome in apology, soft and submissive. “I’m sorry; I should have known that you didn’t want anyone else to play with me. You can punish me, sir, and I won’t do it again.”

 

“Stop,” Jerome said, more forceful, gloved fists clenched as though he wanted to hit something.

 

Oswald was really lost now. Had he miscalculated? He thought Jerome would have liked that—he liked making people hurt.

 

“Stop acting like that. Like, like, like a _whore_.” He spat the last word out with venom.

 

Oswald laughed, too numb to be insulted. “Is that the problem? I can do the whole virgin act if you want.”

 

His demeanor shifted again, went from repentant seducer to nervous boy, his shoulders hunched and eyes wide. “Please, be gentle,” he said through half-lidded eyes and clenched fists in the threadbare sheets. He shifted strategically so the over-sized Arkham uniform drooped on one side, exposing the top of his shoulder and a fine collarbone. He forced a blush to his cheeks, the red standing out even in the dark due to his pale complexion, and averted his eyes, shy and scared. “I—”

 

“ _Stop_.”

 

Oswald’s mouth clicked shut, and he dropped the act, expression blank. Jerome looked panicked, angry, and Oswald wondered where he had gone wrong in his plan.

 

“Don’t act like that. Don’t—don’t act like you— you—” Jerome was struggling with words, fists back in his hair and pulling and pulling, white gloved fingers wrapped around the bright orange locks. “Don’t act like that’s all you are, don’t act like you are just an empty doll for someone to fuck, stop, stop, stop.”

 

Oswald didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t.

 

Jerome continued to ramble incoherently before he stilled, lunging at Oswald and reaching for his neck. Oswald didn’t fight, he had no fight left in him--only falling to his back and waiting, the feeling of two hands wrapped around his pale neck more comforting than alarming.

 

“Who touched you? Who, who _made_ you like this? Was it some bastard clown who snuck into your room after he was done fucking your mom, huh? Or some drunkard who paid your mom twenty bucks for thirty minutes alone with you? _Who_?”

 

Understanding slowly dawned on Oswald, and his eyes softened, turning to pity, empathy as he let his eyes trace the _angersadnessrageshame_ in the man hovering above him. He took one hand and set it on his throat over the ginger’s while the other pushed him up and off. Jerome followed, like a puppet with cut strings.

 

He looked into the boy’s wild eyes as he took both his hands, lacing their fingers together and giving them a soft, grounding squeeze. “Hey,” he said, voice soft as though talking to a spooked horse. He recognized the emotions, the swirl of hate and pain. They were both broken in similar ways. Oswald has just had more time to deal with it. “It’s okay, Jerome. It’s okay.”

 

Jerome’s eyes were still wild, bright hazel irises almost glowing in the dark. “No, it’s _not_! Who was it, Ozzie? Who?”

 

Oswald smiled, and it was a broken smile, full to resignation and compassion. “The first time? A priest. The church ran an after-school program, and Mother couldn’t afford a babysitter.” They couldn’t afford a lot of things at the time. His mother had been working two jobs to pay for the crap apartment that was mildew infested with neighbors who were drug dealers. They shared a dirty mattress on the floor and they could hear screaming and gunshots through the night. Gertrud had done her best to shield her son from everything, and Oswald had done his best to shield his mother in return. 

 

“Father Michael offered to watch me on weekends when my mom had to work, told her that I was just an angel and no trouble at all.” His eyes went distant, as he remembered something he liked to pretend he didn’t remember, like it was a nightmare and he was trying to wake up or a movie that he was watching happen to someone else. “He liked to dress me up in these outfits and tell me I needed to be a good boy for Daddy…” Oswald trailed off, feeling Jerome’s hand squeezed his tighter.

 

“We stopped going to that church when we got evicted and had to move, and I thought it was over. We still couldn’t afford a babysitter, but Mother made friends with Mrs. Szekeres who lived across the hall. She had two sons, and she offered to watch me. She was nice.” He remembered her long brown hair that she kept in an elaborate braid and how she liked to bake cookies in the afternoon and would sneak Oswald an extra one when her boys weren’t looking. The apartment always smelled of cinnamon, sharp and chemical from the candles she burned to cover up the smell of mold. 

 

“Her older son...he was...nineteen at the time?” Oswald continued, remembering the shape of the boy’s face and the way he’d come into the apartment smelling of smoke and booze. “Sometimes Mother worked the late shift so I’d stay over. We had to share a room, the three of us, and he’d come over to our bed at night and touch us both or make us touch each other.” Oswald wondered what happened to the other boy, who was small and thin like Oswald, and just as scared. He remembered how they’d hold hands under the covers and hope that nothing could hurt them that night. He remembered how the other boy had kissed him one night, after his brother had fallen asleep, and it had been sweet, scared, and his first real kiss, the first one that mattered. 

 

“How old were you?” Jerome asked, teeth clenched and nails digging into his palm, little dots of pain in Oswald's hands that he took without complaint. 

 

Oswald rested their foreheads together, tucking an escaped piece of bright orange hair behind his ear, gentle and caring as he stroked the boy’s cheek. “Ten, the first time. Maybe thirteen when it stopped.” When Oswald had lost it one night when Mrs. Szekeres had taken her younger boy to the hospital for a bad fall and left Oswald alone with the teenager. He remembered being scared when he was led to the roof where he found two other teens waiting, laughing with half a dozen empty bottles at their feet. He remembered being scared when he was forced on his back and his legs pried apart, and so scared and hurt and angry when he took a broken bottle and stabbed stabbed stabbed the man until he was nothing more than a bloody lump of flesh.

 

He remembered how calm he felt after when he went back downstairs and showered, crawled into the bed, and fell asleep.

 

“I killed them both, later.” Father Michael had slowly bled to death after Oswald had cut his dick off with bolt cutters, hanging upside down from a meat hook as his blood drained from him. It had been Fish’s present to Oswald, and Oswald didn’t think he loved anyone more that day when she presented it to him and Butch rolled out a cart of shiny new tools to play with. He thought of that day with fondness, remembering the screams and begging as though a lullaby. 

 

Oswald didn’t break eye contact with Jerome as he spoke, continuing the gentle petting, little scratches of nails against scalp that had always calmed him when his mother had done it. He didn’t press, but he had given Jerome the opening if he wanted to take it.

 

“I was ten,” Jerome admitted softly, leaning into Oswald’s petting. “We were asleep and he came in after he fucked Mom, still drunk and horny. I guess Mom had passed out before he was finished, so he wanted to get a little something from us.” There was the distant quality to his voice, like Oswald’s. “I...managed to convince him that there was only me in the room. I pushed Jeremiah to hide under the bed, and he—he—”

 

Oswald shushed him when his voice started to grow loud, panicked.

 

“I told Mom about it the next day and she didn’t believe me. Just slapped me and called me a filthy liar. And Jeremiah—he _lied_ to her. Said I had imagined it, that nothing happened and no one would believe me. He was my _brother,_ he was supposed to be on _my_ side, supposed to protect me and I was supposed to protect him.”

 

“I'm sorry," Oswald said, sincere. He always was, when he met other little broken boys and girls he wished he could have saved from the pain. 

 

Jerome laughed, bitter, and not his signature laugh, not breathless cackle, no mindless enjoyment. “And it never stopped. Didn't stop until I killed her after she drank away her paycheck and she needed her precious little boy to go out and find some big fish.” His voice changed at the end, a pitch higher and not his words and angry, so angry.

 

Oswald pressed his lips against Jerome's before he could lose himself in that hate, offering what little consolation and comfort that he could. “I was sixteen the first time a man paid me for it. Mother got sick and we needed money for medication, rent, bills. Our landlord, luckily,” the word was a little bitter, but not much, “had a taste for scrawny, underage boys.” Oswald shrugged—it hadn’t been bad, really. “After that, it was just easier to keep on doing it. It made good money in a city like Gotham, enough to take care of my mother, especially after Fish recruited me to be one of her boys. It wasn't a bad life and there is no shame in it.”

 

Jerome didn’t say anything, only curled his head to tuck it under Oswald’s chin. Oswald could feel the shake of his shoulders in suppressed sobs, and he held him close, letting the boy hide from the world in his arms. “So it’ll be okay. I know it hurts right now, but it has made us stronger,” he mumbled into his hair, an empty comfort that he has repeated over and over to himself. 

 

Oswald had come to terms with his own demons, learned what bits he could slot back in place and which ones were crushed to dust. Parts of him were irrevocably broken and parts of him had come out stronger, but it had taken years and dozens of scars.

 

It was easy to forget how young Jerome really was, that he was just a boy who had been betrayed by his only family, still so broken and trying to put the pieces back together.

 

Oswald closed his eyes as he pressed another kiss to the top of the boy's head, waiting for his sobs to subside and his breathing to even out in sleep.

 

And people thought they were born monsters.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally part of another larger story, but it got away from itself and was better suited as a standalone piece. Jerome has a lot of issues, and I wish the show would have gone deeper in his relationship with Jeremiah because there is _so_ much anger there. 
> 
> But it also satisfies my need for more Jerome/Oswald goodness in the meantime.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://chierei.tumblr.com)?
> 
> <3


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